The Pale Mist
I was pulling the last nail from the rotten joist when the collection notice slid under the door. The wood groaned, a sound like a man clearing his throat in a silent room. I stepped back, my boots slipping on the wet plaster, and looked at the envelope. Certified. The red stripe caught the grey light filtering through the broken skylight. It was the third one this month, from the company that...
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